Her blouse is already open. Not rushed. Not careful. Just undone enough that my body reacts before thought can catch up. Fabric parts with the barest whisper, and I’m already leaning in, breath thickening, pulse loud in my ears.


Skin. Hot. Exposed.


My hands go to her without permission, without ceremony. Learning gives way to need. The weight fills my palms and it knocks something loose in my chest, solid, warm, undeniable. She inhales sharply as her body presses into mine, like contact is no longer optional.


I don’t slow myself. I hold her. Pressure first. Firm. The give of her flesh answering my hands makes her shudder, a sharp little sound breaking from her throat before she can stop it.


Her breathing fractures.


Thumbs drag, rougher now, less patient. The skin tightens, hypersensitive, nerves flaring awake all at once. She arches hard, chasing more, hips tipping forward like her body’s already decided this is happening.


I stay right on the edge, not teasing, not gentle, just refusing to give her relief yet.


When I lean in, it’s all heat and intent. No hesitation. My mouth brushes her skin and the reaction tears through her, a full-body jolt, breath spilling out of her like she’s been struck.


She says my name like a confession, broken, urgent, like she needs it out of her mouth.


I don’t answer with speed.


I close in.


No space left. Warmth seals around me, soft and full, and the taste of her, salt, heat, skin, hits me hard enough to ground and unleash me at the same time. I press in and stop, letting pressure and warmth do the work.


Her body reacts violently.


A sharp gasp. Fingers digging into my shoulders, nails scraping like she’s trying to anchor herself. The sensation snaps straight through me, locks me in place.


I answer with depth, not rhythm. I shift. Firm. She pulls me in harder, breath breaking, hips driving forward.


She closes around me, presses with intent, and my cock slides hot and hard between her tits. Friction is immediate. Tight. Slick. Slow stroke. Drag. Another. A rough sound comes out of me and my hips start moving without control.


Everything reduces to contact, heat, drag, her grip tightening. Holding still stops being restraint.


I let it build.


I let it build until stillness becomes torture.


She’s open now. Mouth parted. Eyes dark, demanding, unashamed. Her skin shines where heat gathers, flushed and oversensitive. When she drags me closer it’s not gentle. It’s hungry, insistent, her nails raking as she presses herself together around me.


She uses her body, guiding the movement, slow and deliberate. Forward. Back. The friction turns wet, messy, unmistakable. Her hands control the depth, the angle, her breath breaking every time the slide deepens. She never looks away.


Neither do I.


Her lips curl, she likes seeing me like this, focused, wrecked. She tightens her grip, lifts into me, sealing the contact so there’s nowhere to retreat. The pressure coils fast now, tight and relentless, winding deeper with every stroke.


My breath goes shallow. My body hums, stretched too tight, every nerve screaming.


She feels it.


Presses harder.


The spike hits without mercy. Sharp, blinding, and my body bucks before I can stop it. A rough sound tears out of me as pleasure crashes through, too intense to manage, too dense to soften. I jerk, oversensitive, and still push closer, desperate to keep the contact driving it home.


Muscles lock. Then shudder.


Heat surges.


The release rolls through me in brutal waves, leaving me unsteady. Trembling. Gasping. Her hands keep me there, holding me through it as the intensity drags on longer than expected, too much, then not enough, then too much again.


When it finally loosens its grip, I’m left shaking, breath torn, every inch of me lit and raw. I stay pressed close, caught between needing space and needing her, letting the aftershocks fade slowly.


That ache, wanting distance, craving contact lingers, pulsing long after the peak has passed.